Law in War retains his lupus form through the exchanges between Garou of rank, wideyed in the moonlit dimness; the better to see their actions and faces. Ears raised and turning; the better to hear their needs, wants, and to put names to those new faces. Nostrils flared; the better to pick out their scents, separating each ingredient from the simmering stew of rage in which he finds himself.
A stillness takes him, an attuned reverence to this part of the moot where the truth is judged and disagreements are settled. It becomes grave, hackles raised and throat threatening a snarl, when the identities of those who murdered River of Clouds are named. His riotous barking joins that of the deafening rabble when Rat is named.
There is a part of the Philodox that is happy for the unbridled release of frustration. A more analytical part – the part that understood (as much as he could hope to) humans, the part that was Garou and made him different from the family he might have had as a wolf – also recognizes what she has done. Given them an enemy to throat, stoked the fury within, and bound that fury with an invocation of totem against that foe. That part of him is impressed and takes note of the Warder's bearing.
Jack Rabbit's head rises again, long ears like his ape-namesake's turning with interest, each time the passing of the great antler comes with a mention of pack.
Jack remains silent as Garou of greater rank speak, and is still quiet as Garou who have called the Caern theirs for longer than himself. But when they are through, he becomes a squat crag of muscle and sharp ends, queuing up to take the antler when the chance is finally given.
"Rabid Jack Rabbit, deeded Law in War. Wolf-born under a half moon. Cliath son of Rat. Kin on iron horses run with me and they are mine as I am theirs. Show them succor. I will do the same for yours. Mistreat them and learn your mistake," the antler now held at his side, fingers gripped around the root where it once joined a living thing. Still able to feel the energy alive within it.
He raises the antler. Looks at the root. Following along its lines to their sharp ends where they terminate.
"Maybe took a pack to bring this down," a beat as he turns it, then lets it fall back to his side.
"And it might take a lot of pack to bring down the bastards," the High Tongue taking on a more aggressive tone from that of his earlier introduction.
"Lone wolves who will have me for a packmate," looking to the Claiths assembled, to Nina, to Avery, to Keisha, and still on to the next. "Let's not wait to find out if we'll lose more lives for want of another pack. Let's not wait to be found. The need is now."
"Scouts. Other Judges. Singers. Priests. Soldiers. Find me during the revel," an exuberant growl, kicking his leg into earth at the thought of coming release.
"Find me after," said with a simple but expectant shrug.
"Find me," lips of the snout curling up in an ugly smile.
"Together we'll find a pack to call our own."
A stillness takes him, an attuned reverence to this part of the moot where the truth is judged and disagreements are settled. It becomes grave, hackles raised and throat threatening a snarl, when the identities of those who murdered River of Clouds are named. His riotous barking joins that of the deafening rabble when Rat is named.
There is a part of the Philodox that is happy for the unbridled release of frustration. A more analytical part – the part that understood (as much as he could hope to) humans, the part that was Garou and made him different from the family he might have had as a wolf – also recognizes what she has done. Given them an enemy to throat, stoked the fury within, and bound that fury with an invocation of totem against that foe. That part of him is impressed and takes note of the Warder's bearing.
Jack Rabbit's head rises again, long ears like his ape-namesake's turning with interest, each time the passing of the great antler comes with a mention of pack.
Jack remains silent as Garou of greater rank speak, and is still quiet as Garou who have called the Caern theirs for longer than himself. But when they are through, he becomes a squat crag of muscle and sharp ends, queuing up to take the antler when the chance is finally given.
"Rabid Jack Rabbit, deeded Law in War. Wolf-born under a half moon. Cliath son of Rat. Kin on iron horses run with me and they are mine as I am theirs. Show them succor. I will do the same for yours. Mistreat them and learn your mistake," the antler now held at his side, fingers gripped around the root where it once joined a living thing. Still able to feel the energy alive within it.
He raises the antler. Looks at the root. Following along its lines to their sharp ends where they terminate.
"Maybe took a pack to bring this down," a beat as he turns it, then lets it fall back to his side.
"And it might take a lot of pack to bring down the bastards," the High Tongue taking on a more aggressive tone from that of his earlier introduction.
"Lone wolves who will have me for a packmate," looking to the Claiths assembled, to Nina, to Avery, to Keisha, and still on to the next. "Let's not wait to find out if we'll lose more lives for want of another pack. Let's not wait to be found. The need is now."
"Scouts. Other Judges. Singers. Priests. Soldiers. Find me during the revel," an exuberant growl, kicking his leg into earth at the thought of coming release.
"Find me after," said with a simple but expectant shrug.
"Find me," lips of the snout curling up in an ugly smile.
"Together we'll find a pack to call our own."